The workshop was alive with ghosts of invention.
Not literal spirits, though a half-dozen jars along the top shelf pulsed with faint lights that might’ve argued otherwise, but the shadows of half-born ideas. Racks of crossbows lined the wall, no two alike: one designed to fire bolts of silver dust that clung like frost to anything it struck, another with a winding gear meant to pierce chitin with a spinning drill-head. On the worktable, a leather-bound gauntlet bristled with brass fittings, each nozzle waiting to be fed a different powder or oil. The air reeked of steel shavings, lampblack, and bitter herbs; an acrid perfume of both workshop and apothecary.
It was cluttered, but there was method to the madness. Janus knew where every tool lived. He could find a whetstone beneath a stack of sketches, or pluck the right vial of wolfsbane tincture without ever looking up from his work.
And he worked always. While the other Cazadores he called family sparred, hunted, or drank themselves numb in the taverns, Janus spent his nights hunched over his bench, coaxing new life into metal and flame. They didn’t laugh at his odd habits anymore; too many of them carried blades he’d reforged, or armor he’d patched after a warg’s claws found its weak seams. For all his silence and strangeness, Janus made himself indispensable. For those who were indispensable could not be replaced, would not be forgotten.
He wouldn't be forgotten. Not again.
Tonight, his hands trembled faintly as he sketched another diagram, something that might, if it worked, prevent another debacle like what he'd encountered in the House of Wolves. An end to shadow, and a cure for darkness. The lines were jagged, uneven. He rubbed his eyes and muttered, gravel-voiced,
“Not enough. Never enough.”
A knock broke the silence. Deliberate, Precise.
Janus froze.
Another knock. Identical.
His usual clients didn’t knock like that. When they came, they came loud, half-drunk and impatient, demanding quick repairs. His pale eyes flicked to the shelves, to the jars that pulsed faintly with inner light. One flickered, dimmed, as if in answer. The hairs on his arms prickled.
The third knock never came.
Instead, the door splintered inward with a crash, wood and iron hinges shrieking as the frame buckled. Janus staggered back as shadows poured through the breach, not monsters, not beasts, but men, their faces shrouded in cloth, their movements quick and purposeful. Thieves. Raiders. They knew what they were after; One lunged straight for the shelves, sweeping the jars into a sack while another lashed at Janus with a hooked blade. He raised an arm in defense, the leather gauntlet sparking as steel bit into it, but the weight of the blow still drove him to his knees.
“Stop him!” a voice snarled, sharp and commanding.
Janus’ hand darted to his belt, uncorking a vial and hurling it at their feet. Smoke erupted, acrid and blinding, making the men curse and stumble. For a heartbeat, it felt like the tide might turn. He lunged through the haze, shoulder-checking one attacker into the workbench. Tools clattered, a lamp toppled, and fire licked across spilled oils.
But they were too many. Rough hands caught him, slammed him back against the shelves. A fist drove into his ribs, another across his jaw. His head rang, teeth bloodied. The smoke parted just enough for him to see one of the jars tumble from a thief’s grip and shatter across the floor, its pale light writhing into nothing.
“No!” Janus snarled, thrashing against their grip. He caught one man across the face with an elbow, but another clubbed him hard across the shoulder, driving him down again.The sack bulged now with stolen light, the thieves retreating even as the fire began to crawl across the floorboards.
“Leave him,” the leader barked. “He’s already finished.”
Janus slumped to one knee, blood dripping from his lip, his breath ragged. His fingers groped for something—anything—among the scattered tools, but the strength was leaving him fast. As the last of the thieves slipped back into the night with his life’s work clinking at their side, Janus sagged against the burning bench, vision tunneling.
He had to escape, had to muster some strength to free himself.
Had to hope somebody would see him, burning to death in his own sanctuary.
Not literal spirits, though a half-dozen jars along the top shelf pulsed with faint lights that might’ve argued otherwise, but the shadows of half-born ideas. Racks of crossbows lined the wall, no two alike: one designed to fire bolts of silver dust that clung like frost to anything it struck, another with a winding gear meant to pierce chitin with a spinning drill-head. On the worktable, a leather-bound gauntlet bristled with brass fittings, each nozzle waiting to be fed a different powder or oil. The air reeked of steel shavings, lampblack, and bitter herbs; an acrid perfume of both workshop and apothecary.
It was cluttered, but there was method to the madness. Janus knew where every tool lived. He could find a whetstone beneath a stack of sketches, or pluck the right vial of wolfsbane tincture without ever looking up from his work.
And he worked always. While the other Cazadores he called family sparred, hunted, or drank themselves numb in the taverns, Janus spent his nights hunched over his bench, coaxing new life into metal and flame. They didn’t laugh at his odd habits anymore; too many of them carried blades he’d reforged, or armor he’d patched after a warg’s claws found its weak seams. For all his silence and strangeness, Janus made himself indispensable. For those who were indispensable could not be replaced, would not be forgotten.
He wouldn't be forgotten. Not again.
Tonight, his hands trembled faintly as he sketched another diagram, something that might, if it worked, prevent another debacle like what he'd encountered in the House of Wolves. An end to shadow, and a cure for darkness. The lines were jagged, uneven. He rubbed his eyes and muttered, gravel-voiced,
“Not enough. Never enough.”
A knock broke the silence. Deliberate, Precise.
Janus froze.
Another knock. Identical.
His usual clients didn’t knock like that. When they came, they came loud, half-drunk and impatient, demanding quick repairs. His pale eyes flicked to the shelves, to the jars that pulsed faintly with inner light. One flickered, dimmed, as if in answer. The hairs on his arms prickled.
The third knock never came.
Instead, the door splintered inward with a crash, wood and iron hinges shrieking as the frame buckled. Janus staggered back as shadows poured through the breach, not monsters, not beasts, but men, their faces shrouded in cloth, their movements quick and purposeful. Thieves. Raiders. They knew what they were after; One lunged straight for the shelves, sweeping the jars into a sack while another lashed at Janus with a hooked blade. He raised an arm in defense, the leather gauntlet sparking as steel bit into it, but the weight of the blow still drove him to his knees.
“Stop him!” a voice snarled, sharp and commanding.
Janus’ hand darted to his belt, uncorking a vial and hurling it at their feet. Smoke erupted, acrid and blinding, making the men curse and stumble. For a heartbeat, it felt like the tide might turn. He lunged through the haze, shoulder-checking one attacker into the workbench. Tools clattered, a lamp toppled, and fire licked across spilled oils.
But they were too many. Rough hands caught him, slammed him back against the shelves. A fist drove into his ribs, another across his jaw. His head rang, teeth bloodied. The smoke parted just enough for him to see one of the jars tumble from a thief’s grip and shatter across the floor, its pale light writhing into nothing.
“No!” Janus snarled, thrashing against their grip. He caught one man across the face with an elbow, but another clubbed him hard across the shoulder, driving him down again.The sack bulged now with stolen light, the thieves retreating even as the fire began to crawl across the floorboards.
“Leave him,” the leader barked. “He’s already finished.”
Janus slumped to one knee, blood dripping from his lip, his breath ragged. His fingers groped for something—anything—among the scattered tools, but the strength was leaving him fast. As the last of the thieves slipped back into the night with his life’s work clinking at their side, Janus sagged against the burning bench, vision tunneling.
He had to escape, had to muster some strength to free himself.
Had to hope somebody would see him, burning to death in his own sanctuary.
